


Your Vampire Boyfriend: A Choose Your Own Adventure Game.

by wellthen



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), The Hunger (1983), True Blood (TV), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Multi, Not a Love Story, Tags Are Hard, Teenagers, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthen/pseuds/wellthen
Summary: You are very ordinary, which is why you can read minds.
Relationships: Angel/Buffy Summers, Bill Compton/Sookie Stackhouse, Edward Cullen/Bella Swan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Your Vampire Boyfriend: A Choose Your Own Adventure Game.

—  
Your name is Bella Summers. You are a high school junior. You are an average, ordinary girl with an average, ordinary life. You can read the thoughts of every single person around you and it is exhausting. 

There is nothing special about you.

Do you long for adventure, passion, for someone to yearn for you Uncontrollably?

If you know you’re special, in spite of everything, you can choose to rest your forehead against the cold edge of the locker door. You can laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh forever here.

Otherwise, keep going.

—  
Angel is tall, dark, handsome, pale, ivory. He has an accent. He is from Mexico City or Scandinavia.

He smiles at you at the pep rally, in the back of the bleachers. 

I’ve been watching you, he says. 

You smile at him, wary. Why can’t you read his thoughts?

Keep going.

—  
In AP Latin Angel is your lab partner. He recites Gregorian Chants from memory, astonishing your teacher. “Where did you learn that?” She asks. “Vespers.” He says. She laughs delightedly, and so does the rest of the class.

“Latin humor,” cries one of the computer science kids in the front row, and claps his hands.

Keep going.

—  
It’s the middle of the night at the elementary school playground next to the cornfield. You sit next to Angel. Your legs hang off the scaffold where the monkey bars begin. “You're cold,” he says. His fangs come out when he puts his arms around you. It’s impolite to notice them so you don’t. 

“I was a bad vampire, he says, “but now, I’m a good vampire. Because of you. How special you are.”

You’re so lucky. 

Keep going.

—  
“I just want to protect you,” he says, hands in fists at his side.

“I can take care of myself,“ you insist. “I go out at night all the time.” 

“It’s too dangerous,” he hisses. 

When he crosses to you you think he’s going to hit you, but instead you feel his lips against yours. It’s romantic.

Did you get that? It’s romantic. 

Keep going.

— You are wrapped around him in the bed at his lair, a crypt, a mansion, the basement of his parents’ house. He kisses your forehead and your heart beats faster.  
“I could stay like this forever,” he whispers. 

Keep going.

— “ I’m worried about you,” your best guy friend Sam says to you the next day between periods. 

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he says, stroking your cheek.

You smile back at him, grabbing his shirt collar in a way that provides plausible deniability. “I can take care of myself, silly.” You hope Angel sees.

If you notice anything unusual, go to the playground.  
Otherwise, keep going.

—  
“I wish I deserved you.” Angel says to you while buying a light blue package of American Spirits at the Kwik Stop behind the bowling alley.

“Do you think anyone will ever understand you the way I do?” he says, tied to a tree, waiting for the sun to come up and put you out of your misery.

“Maybe it would be better if we were both dead,” he says, speeding to 80 mph without headlights on the way back from the movie theater.

It’s hard to be in love, especially with someone as special as a vampire. 

Keep going. 

— the playground 

The night you tell him it’s over, the ground is wet because it’s been raining. The asphalt smells like mold. 

The playground’s granite tombstones are slippery, but the concrete ones are rough. When you touch them, bits of stone come away in your hand.

“I love you,” he says, crying, his nails digging into the skin above his eyebrows. “You can’t leave me. I love you. You love me.” 

His fangs are out again. You shouldn’t notice. 

Do you notice?

He’s right. You forgot. You love him. 

You smile. He smiles. 

You’re both so special. 

Go back to where you were before, keep going. 

Otherwise:  
He looks down on you from on top of the monkey bar scaffolding as he lets go, as you collapse. 

His fangs have blood on them. The ground is wetter now, but it’s impolite to notice.

“I could stay like this forever,” he whispers.

So can you.  
—

Your friends call you to the library, deadly serious. You can read all of their thoughts but choose not to because you’re a good person, and because their thoughts are so predictable, so average, so boring. 

“Bella,” Giles says, holding a giant book open. “It’s worse than we feared. It’s not just that Bill is a vampire.” He cleans his glasses. Sam crosses his arm and scowls from across the bar.

Giles continues. “The prophecy says that you‘re part of this too. That you have a choice. That you’re making choices every second.” 

Lafayette smirks at you, flipping another pancake at the stove.

That can’t be right. 

They don’t understand. They’re not special.

They’re not like you and Edward. 

If you notice what Giles is saying, go to the playground. 

Otherwise, keep going.

—  
The night after prom you show up at his crypt with a bottle of pineapple vodka. 

“WHAT DOES SHE HAVE THAT I DON'T HAVE?” you scream, throwing rocks at the urns inside. You slide down the slide and climb across the monkey bars but he still doesn’t appear.

You finish the rest of the bottle, climb into an open grave.

“I hate you,” you say when he finally appears above you. “You’re so selfish.”

“She’s my sire’s cousin twice removed,” he says. “We served in the Spanish Intifada together.  
It isn’t like that. “

He looks so tired. Do you look that tired?

If you choose to notice, go to the playground.

Otherwise, keep going.

— 

The night before your big chem final you’re watching a vampire movie, the one with 70s hair and opera music. The vampire woman stares into the eyes of her victim, who is beginning to waste away. 

He texts you “come over, I can’t be alone right now.”

“Why are you ignoring me?” says the woman on the screen as she feeds. “You don’t even care that I’m depressed right now? You’re a shitty fucking girlfriend and a shitty fucking person. I wish we were both dead.”

The victim collapses. 

Seriously, are you getting any of this?

Whatever. Keep going.

—  
You wake up at his crypt at 4:45 am. He's fast asleep. 

Your legs twitch, filled with energy.

If you choose to make him a mug of blood, go to blood.

If you choose to make him toast and jam, go to bread.

BREAD.  
You take the bread from the fridge and put it in the toaster. You don’t know how to use it so one side of the toast is black and the other side is barely toasted. You spread on the butter until it melts, then add strawberry jam.

you bring the toast on a plate to the bed, and he is awake, lounging. He eats half of the toast in three bites, sparkling in the moonlight. 

“I wasn’t sure if you could eat that kind of stuff,” you say.

“I get bad cramps, but sometimes it’s worth it.”  
He smiles, pats his stomach, puts his arm around you. 

“I think we should stop seeing each other,” you say into his bare chest. 

He keeps smiling, takes another bite of toast. “I think you might be right,” he says. 

He ruffles your hair a little. 

You sit together until the sun comes up. 

Three years later, you see him at the bowling alley and choose to wave. He waves back. 

Then you never see him again. 

If you choose, go back to the beginning.

BLOOD.  
You open the fridge, pop the seal on a blood bag, and pour some into a chipped yellow mug with a cartoon dog on it. You put in the microwave for 54 seconds. You bring the mug to him in bed.

He sits upright in bed and starts to cry. “It’s lukewarm,” he says in between muffled sobs.

You hold him as the weeping shakes his body, setting the mug down to balance unevenly in the folds of the sheets. You reach over his shoulder to open the curtains.

“You’re not real,” you tell him as he burns. “Vampires don’t exist.”

He stares back at you, writhing into ash. “Of course I’m real,” he says as his jaw burns away. A chunk of ash falls between your toes and into the sheets. 

“You’re not real. You’ve been a figment of my imagination this entire time.” 

The bed is covered in ash. 

This is your crypt now.

You take the Halloween store plastic fangs out of the ash and put them in your mouth. 

You drink the rest of the mug of blood, still boiling.

It’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

You are so lucky to be this special.

Go back to the beginning.  
—


End file.
